


Christmas in Chelsea

by BoldAsBrass



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Yassen Gregorovich Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21899131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoldAsBrass/pseuds/BoldAsBrass
Summary: Last minute Christmas shopping and Alex is not feeling the festive spirit.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 12
Kudos: 132





	Christmas in Chelsea

It was the weekend before Christmas but Alex Rider was not in a festive mood. He hated this time of year. Mostly Jack and he managed fine with just the two of them. But Christmas reminded him of how he was different. His flatmates had looked at him with a mixture of pity and surprise when he’d said he was spending Christmas with his housekeeper. He didn’t want their pity; he wanted Christmas to be over and for normal life to resume. Instead, he was fighting his way through the crowds in Duke of York Square, trying to find a present for Jack at the Christmas market. And knowing that it was his own fault, and that he should never have left it until the last minute to go shopping, didn’t make him feel any better.

It was mid-afternoon but dusk was already falling. Tasteful golden lights twinkled in the bare-branched trees. Carol singers from the local conservatoire sang _Gaudete_ in complicated five-part harmony: only the most refined of carols allowed here. A score of white-bearded Father Christmases wove their way through the crowd, carrying fundraising buckets for the local children’s hospital. This was affluent, middle-class London, only a few miles away from Brookland Comprehensive, but spiritually a different world. The hordes of over-excited children were called things like Hugo, and Lily, and Ollie. Their parents wore charm bracelets from Tiffany’s, rather than Pandora, and their Christmas jumpers were made of cashmere, not acrylic. It was a typical London December day, mild and damp. Everyone was wearing expressions of forced good cheer and looked rather too hot.

Alex turned from examining a display of gingerbread houses to find he had been cornered by one of the fundraising Father Christmases. “Ho ho ho,” he said and shook his bucket meaningfully in Alex’s direction.

He sighed but dug some loose change out of his jean’s pocket. Maybe it was time to give up. He could get up early and buy Jack something in the Boxing Day sales. She probably wouldn’t mind.

“And what do you want for Christmas?” Father Christmas asked as Alex dropped in his coins. A snowy white beard covered most of his face, but the hand holding the bucket was not an old man’s hand.

“The usual,” said Alex. “Peace on earth. Meaningful action on climate change. An end to world hunger. Can you sort that for me, Santa?”

“No,” Father Christmas admitted. He removed his red and white hat and ran a hand through his hair. It shone brightly in the twinkling lights. Not white, but a cool silvery blond, the same colour as his eyebrows. “Things were easier when little boys asked for train sets,” he added, giving Alex a sidelong look.

“I’m not a little boy anymore,” said Alex. “And I never wanted a train set, anyway. I wanted a Sega Mega Drive.” He should have felt surprised, but he didn’t. It was as though he had been waiting for this to happen. How much of his bad mood had been a residual dislike of Christmas and how much a restless sense that he was being watched?

Yassen tucked the hat into his broad black belt and fell into step alongside him. “And did you get one?”

“Not until I was ten. Jack got it for me.” Ian Rider hadn’t approved of games consoles. Skis, tennis rackets, wet suits had been more his kind of present. Alex and Jack had had to sneak games of _Sonic the Hedgehog_ when he’d worked late. The console must have been expensive, he realised with a retrospective pang of guilt. Jack would have had to save up. That was probably why it had taken a few years to arrive. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Above the beard, Yassen’s brow remained smooth and unfurrowed but Alex sensed a slight hesitation in his response. The minute pause which followed any personal question.

“What did you want for Christmas when you were little?” They strolled past a chestnut seller. The smell: sweet, earthy and a little smoky reminded Alex of a sharp winter’s night in Prague, twenty degrees colder than London, shivering as he waited to intercept a package from Tbilisi. Cold, but on that razor edge of adrenaline that made everything clear and bright.

“We didn’t celebrate Christmas in the Soviet Union, but for New Year I used to hope Grandfather Frost would give me the chance to ride in a helicopter.”

“And did he?”

Yassen considered. “Eventually, yes.”

“How was it?”

“Memorable,” Yassen said, but he didn’t elaborate. He seemed content to walk alongside Alex, their shoulders not quite brushing as he admired the brightly decorated stalls. He gave the impression of a man at ease. Someone who had completed all their Christmas tasks and was ready to kick back and enjoy the holiday.

“Are you here for professional reasons?” Alex asked cautiously. It was always touch and go whether Yassen would answer questions about work, but his relaxed demeanour suggested nothing immediately disastrous was about to take place.

A red-faced man staggered out of the crowd before he could receive a response. “Merry Christmas,” he slurred and shoved a twenty-pound note in Yassen’s direction before plunging towards a mulled wine stall.

“Merry Christmas,” said Yassen politely. He looked at the note in his hand. “Do you want a drink?” he asked Alex.

“No,” Alex said. “And you can’t steal from the children’s hospital either.” He plucked the note from Yassen’s fingers and posted it into the bucket before there could be further debate.

“Suit yourself,” Yassen said. He really was in a remarkably tolerant mood. He handed the bucket into a security kiosk as they passed. The guard was wearing a pair of foam antlers. He did not look full of Christmas cheer.

“So, why are you here?” Alex prompted as they turned down the central avenue. It was lined on both sides by wooden stalls, each one seeming to sell near identical iterations of soap, candles and Christmas tree baubles.

Yassen examined a stand of festive woollen hats. He was quiet for so long Alex didn't think he would answer, but eventually he said, “A lot of embassy workers visit this market. They like to bring their families here to see the traditional British Christmas.”

“In Chelsea,” said Alex. Where the average family house cost two and a half million pounds. “How typically British.”

A nonchalant shrug greeted this observation. “And they like to send their children to the grotto. For a bargain price of thirty pounds, they can see Santa, have a personalised story read to them and receive a new toy.”

“Cheap at twice the price,” Alex said. “And would I be right in thinking that some of these new toys are more special than others?”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I just read the stories and pass out the presents.”

“And where was the real Father Christmas while all this was happening?”

“The North Pole,” said Yassen, not missing a beat.

“Ho ho ho.” Alex mimed hilarity.

“You’re in a bad mood today,” Yassen observed mildly.

“I’m not a big fan of Christmas.” They separated to allow a family group to pass between them. The two children were whining. Mum was tight-faced and laden with bags. Dad, oblivious and on his phone. It was, Alex thought cynically, the most wonderful time of the year.

“Santa is having a sleep in the storeroom,” Yassen said once they were reunited. “He found the children particularly demanding this year. It turns out all those little sips from a hipflask can soon add up.”

“I’ll bet,” said Alex. Especially if someone had doctored the Christmas spirit. He wondered if he should contact Tulip Jones. There had to be a record of the visitors to the grotto, a chance to intercede before any damage was done.

“It’s a shame he lost the list of children’s names, though,” Yassen added. “That might have been useful to someone.”

“No electronic back up?”

Yassen clicked his tongue sadly. “Computers can be so unreliable.”

They halted at a crossroads. They had reached the entrance to the gourmet food market. The stalls were full of festive specialities from a hundred nations: Norwegian salmon, Scottish grouse, Japanese fried chicken, Filipino suckling pig. Alex paused to look at a roast piglet. It had burnished golden skin and a festive red ribbon tied around its neck.

“Now where?” Yassen asked. He put his hands in his pockets and looked around the stalls with interest. Alex had the nagging sense he was missing something. It wasn’t fair, he thought resentfully. His seasonal malaise was in many ways, Yassen’s fault. If it weren’t for him, Ian Rider would be alive and well to celebrate Christmas with them. But then, if it weren’t for Yassen, Alex probably wouldn’t be. It was complicated. And now, he decided, wasn’t the time to get into it. He had Christmas presents to buy. Jack had saved up her meagre wages to give Alex the one gift she had known he really wanted. The least he could do in return was to put a bit of thought into her present.

“I need to buy something for Jack.”

“What does he like?”

“She,” Alex said absently.

“She?” Yassen’s head turned towards him. His brow remained smooth but a certain coolness entered his voice.

“Yeah,” said Alex. “Listen. If you were an American in your thirties and you hated cooking, would you want a whole suckling pig?”

“The housekeeper,” said Yassen after a fractional pause.

“Yeah.”

“No, I would not want a whole suckling pig.”

“Okay,” said Alex. “What would you want?”

Yassen resumed walking, his good mood restored. “In my experience, there are three ways to find out what a woman truly wants.”

“Which are?” Alex asked falling into step alongside him. Most of the time he would rather die than admit he need Yassen’s assistance, but this was an emergency. And, although he was loath to admit it, an area where Yassen almost certainly had more experience than he did.

“The first way, the best way, is to cosy up to her best friend. They will know.”

“Always?” Alex asked dubiously.

“Most of the time,” Yassen allowed.

“Okay,” said Alex. The trouble was, he would have said he was Jack’s best friend, or at least one of them, and he didn’t have a clue. “And what if they don’t?”

“If they don’t, you break into her house, read her diary, look through her cupboards, hack her laptop and view her browsing history. That will tell you all you need to know.”

He should have guessed, Alex supposed. “And what’s the third way?”

Yassen gave him a flat look. “You ask her.”

“Just straight out ask?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” He took out his phone and sent Jack a message: _Do you want a whole suckling pig for Christmas?_ He added a picture of the pig in its festive bow for context.

The reply was almost immediate. _No, you dork!_

“She doesn’t want a pig,” he informed Yassen. Yassen looked unsurprised.

The phone buzzed again. Jack had been busy typing.

_Any of the following:_

_A decent bottle of Scotch_

_Hiking socks_

_A Game of Thrones calendar_

_A puncture repair kit_

_An OS map of the Rhinogs_

_NOTHING FROM LUSH!_

_You mean you don’t want a Pandora bracelet?_ _☹☹☹_ he sent back.

She replied with a rude emoji. Then added _: If you’re at the food market could you pick up some goat curry and a dozen empanadas for dinner?_

_Will do._

“Whisky,” he said to Yassen. “There’s a stall at the end of the row.”

* * *

Eventually, he decided upon a bottle of Scotch; a glass with _I drink and I know things_ engraved on it; a pair of luxury Alpaca hiking socks and some Hershey’s kisses, which Jack always claimed to hate while eating the whole pack. It was going to be okay, he thought reviewing his purchases. Not the best Christmas present ever, but not a Baylis & Harding gift set and a half price selection box either.

“All done?” Yassen asked. He’d bought a paper bag of hot roasted chestnuts and eaten them while Alex shopped with small interested bites. Now he crumpled the bag into a ball and shot it neatly into a bin before returning to Alex’s side.

“Yeah.” Alex said absently. He looked about. Something nagged at him still. Night had fully fallen. Lights sparkled in the Christmas trees. Choirs sang. Families, groups of friends, couples, strolled along hand in hand, pointing out the sights to each other, buying their last-minute gifts. Eating, drinking, making merry. His suspicions condensed all at once into certainty. “Is this a date?” he asked. “Are we on a date?”

“A date?” Yassen mused. His eyelids shadowed his eyes. His lashes really were unfairly long and thick, giving him an ethereal appearance entirely at odds with his chosen profession. “Do you want to go on a date?”

But Alex was growing wise to this strategy of countering questions with more questions. “I’m not talking about what I want,” he pointed out. “I’m talking about what this is.”

“Huh.” Caught out, Yassen’s eyelashes lifted, revealing a far from guileless blue gaze.

“You’ve been shopping with me,” Alex accused as the penny dropped further. “And you’ve _liked_ it.”

The fake beard hid most of Yassen’s mouth but his amusement was palpable. “What a monster I am,” he murmured. “Come with me.”

“What now?”

“Come,” Yassen repeated, quiet but urgent. “I have something to show you.” Without explaining further, he set off towards the market entrance. Alex hesitated, then curiosity got the better of him and he picked up his bags and followed behind.

They were in the main square by the time Yassen halted outside the entrance to one of the area’s many shopping arcades, a grand Grecian style portico supported by Corinthian columns. Alex glanced inside. Café seating spilled out from coffee shops and restaurants into the main nave, full of busy consumers taking a quick caffeine break, but he could see no suspect packages, or suspiciously loitering thugs hidden amongst them. A trace of disappointment accompanied the realisation. He might almost have welcomed a bright shot of adrenaline to cut through the cloying Christmas excess.

“What am I looking for?” he asked in puzzlement.

Yassen’s pale gaze drifted slowly upwards and Alex’s followed it to see a huge bundle of mistletoe, woven into a festive installation, replete with striped candy canes and silver bells, hanging from the portico.

“Oh no,” he said.

“No?” Above his snow-white beard, Yassen’s eyes were wide and innocent. “But I thought we were on a date?”

“It’s only a date if someone asks and someone says yes.”

“I’m asking,” Yassen said.

Grudgingly, Alex supposed he was. “Well, not where people can see.” Admittedly, it was Chelsea, where everyone was far too sophisticated to raise an eyebrow at two men kissing, even if one of them was Father Christmas. But even so, public displays of affection didn’t come easily to him.

Without speaking, Yassen drew him behind one of the columns, so they were tucked into the small niche behind it. Not quite beneath the mistletoe but out of sight of the passing crowds. In other parts of London, the space would be occupied by a huddled figure in a sleeping bag trying to escape the damp weather. Not here, though. Biscuit tins with pictures of the Little Match Girl on them were all very well, but no one wanted actual poor people spoiling the traditional British Christmas.

“Here?” Yassen asked.

Alex grimaced. “Not with the beard.”

“It’s very soft,” Yassen said, stroking it coaxingly.

“Doesn’t feel right.”

“Fine,” Yassen said and peeled it away from his skin. He didn’t wince as the adhesive came loose but Alex had the strong impression that if it had been anyone else, they would.

“What did you stick it on with, superglue?” he asked, as the last of the lace backing pulled free.

Yassen rubbed his jaw. “The children like to pull on it to see if it is real. It is actually quite painful.”

“Kids, eh?” Alex said, but beneath his sardonic exterior his heartbeat had begun to pick up. Clean shaven, the man in front of him was suddenly and very definitely Yassen Gregorovich, the Russian assassin. Smooth, pale and dangerous, he stood out amongst the milling shoppers like a knife in a jar of wooden spoons.

Yassen’s smile was sharply amused. “Yes, indeed.” His attention fixed on Alex’s mouth. “And now,” he added, low but clear. “I want my Christmas present.”

It was not a kiss which made everything better. Choirs of angels did not sing. Peace did not descend from above. Climate change still loomed on the horizon, like a dark and threatening cloud. But it was a kiss of genuine feeling. Yassen kissed with a focussed intent that was entirely characteristic, one arm wrapping around Alex’s waist, the other coming up to cup his head and grip in his hair. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt. Like gunpowder, Alex thought hazily. And a little of chestnuts. His hands were full of shopping, constraining how he could respond. Awkwardly, he transferred the bags to one hand and with the other he ran his fingers up the hard smooth nape of Yassen’s neck and through the close-cropped hair on the back on his head.

The effect was instantaneous. Yassen broke the kiss to seize Alex’s bottom lip between his teeth and tug on it, punctuating the action with a movement of his hips that Santa almost certainly shouldn’t have known. The sharp sting made him gasp, but before he could protest Yassen had released him and was pressing his face into the side of his neck, nosing beneath his ear for few moments before pulling away.

“What is it?” he asked, when he saw Alex's expression. He smoothed his hair back from his forehead. staring deep into his eyes. “Why so puzzled?”

Alex tried to marshal his thoughts. The air was suddenly short of oxygen. “I need to buy curry goat.”

A long dimple appeared in Yassen's left cheek, giving him an unexpectedly boyish appearance. “I think you can manage that by yourself,” he said and pressed another kiss to Alex’s mouth. “You know,” he added, when he pulled away, “there is an outdoor swim at Hampstead Heath on Christmas morning?”

Alex blinked as the meaning sunk in. “If this is an excuse to see me in my swimming trunks,” he began. Then stopped, not sure where the sentence was going. If this was an excuse to see him in his swimming trunks, then it wasn’t as though Yassen hadn’t already seen him in far less.

“Maybe a little hat, also?” Yassen murmured encouragingly.

“I don’t know.” But it wasn’t as though he had other, more pressing plans. After his uncle’s death they hadn’t bothered with the big Christmas dinner. Alex wasn’t a fan and Jack did the turkey thing at Thanksgiving with her family in the US. They ordered a Chinese and collected it mid-afternoon, eating it while they played _Mario Kart_. A morning dip would be possible. “Will you be swimming?” he asked. Yassen in _his_ swimming trunks, seal sleek and compact, might be worth getting up for.

“I’m Russian,” said Yassen, as though that answered everything. Maybe it did.

“And then what?” Creep into the woods for a brief, chilly festive liaison? It would give the local dog walkers something to talk about but Alex wasn’t sure he fancied the idea. It sounded like a recipe for goose bumps and splinters.

Yassen’s mind in any case was running along a different track. “Afterwards there is mulled wine and mince pies.”

“No one actually likes mince pies,” he objected.

“I do,” Yassen said unexpectedly.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Alex pulled a face. “You can have mine then.”

“So you’re coming?”

He hesitated, but apparently he was. It was Christmas, after all. Maybe time to celebrate while they still had the chance. Who knew what the new year would bring? “I guess.”

Yassen smoothed the beard back onto his face. It was no longer quite so securely anchored, but it would satisfy the casual observer. “I will see you on Christmas Day, then.”

“You’re leaving?” Alex said, torn between disappointment and relief. He had been coming around to the idea that they might have a coffee.

“For now.” Yassen took the hat from his belt and replaced it on his head, then looked around the pillar judging his moment.

“Oh.” Now the time had come, Alex found himself seeking for a way to delay him. “Well, don’t _I_ get a Christmas present?”

A mocking sidelong glance. “No.”

“Why not?” Alex asked, although he knew he was being childish. You couldn’t claim to hate Christmas and then be annoyed when people took you at your word.

Yassen adjusted the hat so it covered his hair. Between the white trim and the beard, only his eyes remained visible, sharp and blue as a razor’s edge. “Because you don’t know what you want.” Alex drew breath to argue, and found a finger pressed to his lips. “But it’s all right,” Yassen continued quietly. “I can wait until you do.”

His finger tapped once, twice, against Alex’s mouth then he slipped away into the crowds. One more Father Christmas amongst many.


End file.
